


Tinker, Tailor, Soldier

by Vathara



Series: Urban Legends [2]
Category: Airwolf, Gargoyles (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 03:05:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15899622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vathara/pseuds/Vathara
Summary: How Moses might have rescued Archangel, one night in East Germany.





	Tinker, Tailor, Soldier

_About two decades ago._

* * *

 

There were a lot of walls in East Germany besides the Wall, and tonight Michael Coldsmith-Briggs III, recently code-named Archangel, felt like he'd hit all of them.

_This is the last time I follow up a lead from the SDECE_.

The young spy caught a breath where he sagged against cold stone, tasting blood from his split lip. No time to worry about the mission, now; the whispers, from the French Secret Service and elsewhere, of Westerners turned inexplicably to the Soviet side, of a so-called "Double Star" project that would give the KGB an edge not even the Firm could match. Barely enough time to wonder who had caught "Michael Worthington" snooping around where well-connected American businessmen shouldn't be.

_Who, or what_ , spun through Archangel's ringing head. Whoever had bounced him off the last three walls might wear a Russian greatcoat, but somehow its proportions were... off. Something wrong about how the knees bent as it fought - and what was that soft _boom_ of air, as if wind surged over sails?

He surged up and out, arm raised to ward off the blow he somehow _heard_ coming-

Like hitting granite.

"Ah, the upper block!" A rumble, as if a demon had hammered an avalanche into a Russian voice. "Good, _Amerikanski_. Someone has taught you well-"

Something snaked under Archangel's feet - not a leg, too long and limber to be a leg - a tapered rope of muscle, sheathed in leathery skin.

The alley came up, hard.

"-But not well enough."

* * *

  
Archangel choked back a gasp as whatever-it-was seized him up in taloned hands and flung him across its shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Things were gray and wavery around the edges, there was an odd crunching noise in his ears, and he felt a distinct disinclination to move, but he wasn't - quite - out. If he could just gather his strength...

His captor loosed a gravelly Russian chuckle. "I would suggest, Comrade, that you look down."

Involuntarily, Archangel did.

_Oh, hell_.

Sixty feet up and still climbing, sky-blue talons bit into sooty German brick. And let go.

_I am not going to scream_ -

Dark blue membranes caught wind in a swoosh; his captor laughed, banking near a tenement close enough to catch the scent of someone's late-night baking. Archangel couldn't stop his hands from clenching on the creature's coat. He was a pilot, and a good one; heights didn't scare him. Falling was another matter entirely.

"Ah. You understand. Good." A craggy face turned toward him; a row of short horns poking through close-cropped blond hair, glowing white where eyes should have been. "A raven, to catch my Mouse..."

Leathery fingers choked Archangel's throat. "You are an honorable foe. Would that I could grant you as fitting a death."

Blackness.

Blackness broken by the sting of a needle, a cold chill of steel cuffs binding him to a metal cot, a draft from a not-quite-closed window, a susurration of Russian voices."-Mind is strong," said an elderly voice, genteel with an accent that might have seen Tsars rule. "Possibly even trained to resist. Must we try?"

"He may be a spy, yes." Younger, arrogant tones, confident in the way that only a man who'd held lives hostage could be. "All the better. Adleida _will_ have it out of him. Won't you, Adelichka?"

A thin hand touched Archangel's cheek. "Pyetr brought him?" A young woman's voice, possibly even a teenager; shy, but with a core that whispered of hidden steel.

"Does it matter, Mouse?"

The hand withdrew. "Pyetr's been... upset, lately. He says what we do's against the clan, against the soul of Mother Russia."

"And you listen?"

"Of course not! I know what my parents would wish. I only wish we could make him understand."

"Hmm." Thoughtful arrogance, now. "Perilous creature."

"You wouldn't hurt him!"

"Of course not, Adelichka; of course not. Is he not a warrior, honored in service against that plague of Germans? But we must think..." The arrogant voice faded; a door shut.

"If this is one of the American spies, he cannot be harmless." The elderly man again. "Your parents were of the first Starlights, and you have their strength, yet this is still a new technique. You run a risk." Archangel strained his ears, caught a cottony rustle that sounded like a lab coat. If only he could open his eyes...

"Yes. But I will do as I must, for our country." Adleida's hand returned, brushing back his hair. "Who are you?"

_Michael Worthington_ , Archangel would have said. Hold the cover at all costs. But he couldn't get his lips to move.

That didn't seem to matter. "That is not your name, Mikhail," Adleida said tartly. Amazing, the depth of feeling he could hear in her words. Almost as if he'd learned Russian on his mother's knee, as Vladimir had, instead of from college texts. "Who are you?"

_None of your business_. God, he had a headache.

"Yes." Her voice dropped. "I know. It hurts." Fingers pressed soothing circles on his temples; the pain retreated before a subtle, alien pressure in his brain. "They say they will lower the dosage, but I know they lie... do not fight me, Mikhail. The drug damages, and you need your strength. Save yourself, and live."

Drug? What? That _feeling_ in his mind, like spidery fingers prying open the cabinets of his memories... brainwashing? No! He'd fight to the last breath. They wouldn't have-

A glimmer of alien triumph touched him; he yanked that thought to a halt, as if it were chained.

They wouldn't have anything, because he was Michael Worthington, innocent if far too curious American businessman. Who in the world would want to brainwash him?

He _felt_ her blink, almost as if his own eyelids had flickered. "You know why!" Adleida accused.

_Haven't a clue_. Why would he? Unless the U.S.S.R. was trying to get a deal on American machinery. In which case, there were easier ways to find someone to bribe... And now his head was really starting to hurt.

"He fights, Dr. Zakharii." The shyness was dropping away from Adleida's voice, unsheathing steel. He sensed the purpose in her, unyielding as his own. Fiercer, perhaps, with all a teenager's youthful outrage at the wrongs of the world, that made no allowances for the very real limits of humankind. "You know what you are, Mikhail. What you were trained to be. And it is not a _businessman_."

What he was... did anyone ever know what they were? He buried himself in Worthington, remembered girls in a middle-class hometown, skipping rope to tell their future husband's fortune.

_Young man, young man, what will you be?_  
_Count it out and listen to me._  
_Tinker, tailor,_  
_Soldier, sailor..._

"Games will not save you, Mikhail!"

Wouldn't they?

_Rich man, poor man,_  
_Beggarman, thief;_  
_Lawyer, doctor,_  
_Indian chief..._

"You wish to fight?" For all her youthful girlishness, something in Adleida's voice reminded him of Pyetr. "Very well."

The world twisted away; he fell and fell-

_Roll with it. Gravity always wins. Be limp, ready for when you_ -

Like landing; the impact knocked the breath from him. Worse was the sense that came with it, of infinite depth, infinite blackness. As if he'd somehow kept his footing on the skin of the ocean, and if whatever fluke of will or nature kept him from breaching the surface failed, he'd sink forever.

_Where am I?_

Scattershot of images; an empty horizon, a darkling plain about him, solid and yet... not. Archangel drew in air, registering the absence of scent, sound, the feel of breathing itself. He was here. He existed. But this place wasn't _real_.

"It is real enough." A whisper of wind through silvery wings; a glimmer of midnight hair, cascading past paired onyx horns to brush the shoulders of a Russian tunic. Taloned feet dug into the ground, and clawed fingers gripped a Japanese katana.

_Adleida_. But he'd felt those fingers on his brow; counted five, not four. "This isn't you."

"It is. Here." The blade flashed light as she moved. "Pyetr teaches me with this, in the outer world. You know what it is, do you not? A strange interest, for a... businessman."

"Your country may have brought a few home in 1905, but we've won our own since." Real or not, Archangel fell into a fighting stance. _Watch that tail_. "He knows the way of the sword? An honorable man." Or... whatever. "What would he think of you now, ambushing an unarmed man?" _Get her mad. Get her to do anything but think_. If she were anywhere near Pyetr in strength, she wouldn't need that blade to shred him like last week's newspaper-

Flash of blade; he was already moving, sensing the shift of muscles. Sensing the shift of mind that aimed the blade; young, strong, wildfire fighting for her country's life.

_So am I_.

Dodge, strike; feel the sting of steel, as he didn't move quite fast enough. Duck under a wing. Bite back a curse, as the claws on it raked him. All the time _feeling_ more of himself ripped away, more of his defenses falling...

They disengaged a moment, breathing hard. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on Adleida's dark hide. "You are strong. It is a shame... you will not survive."

Archangel saved his breath, aching in a dozen places. He was good at hand-to-hand, better than she; but the teenager had the experience in the weird, dark place.

"I offer you the chance to yield. Join with us." Dark talons reached out, smoothed into human fingers offering succor. "Save yourself."

He gathered his strength, shook his head. "Turn? You could never trust me."

"Oh, no." Red-glowing eyes were deathly sure. "I would know you, Archangel. Yield to me... and I would _know_."

Know everything. Every secret. Every hope. Every fear.

Never.

He needed an edge. Needed-

Fangs gleamed, grimly determined. "As you wish."

_A sword_.

Imagine it. _Make_ it real, as Adleida had her terrifying form. Feel the heft of it in his hands, hear the swift whistle as it sliced air-

Dark wings recoiled. Archangel smiled grimly, running fingers along slim steel. "I imagine you think businessmen don't fence, either."

_Strike!_

* * *

  
_God, Michael, where are you?_

Clad in his borrowed Russian Army uniform, Vladimir Rostoff, code-named Moses, snuck through a maze of streets to the back of the little apartment building this small group of the KGB had claimed as its own. Praying to the God he would never admit he believed in that he'd struck mid-watch, instead of before a check-in. He'd already silenced one of their guards forever.

A scream rent the air; high and shrill, a soul in the grip of mortal terror.

_Michael!_ He dashed the last feet to the curtained window, dreading what he would see-

Archangel was handcuffed to a cot; still clothed, wrists torn and bleeding, barely conscious. A young Russian woman, almost a girl, slumped in a chair beside him; eyes rolled back so only the whites were visible, crimson trickling from her right nostril. An elderly scientist snapped his head up from examining the woman, opened his mouth to sound the alarm-

Silenced shots starred the white coat with blood.

Moses climbed through the shattered window, checked the pulse of the cuffed spy. _Still alive_.

How long he would stay that way was anyone's guess. Michael was pale, clammy; as if he'd been dumped into a raging blizzard, and only barely fought clear. What had they done to him?

A search of the white-coated body turned up an ominous answer. _Rush_.

Moses shivered. He didn't know more than the basics of the drug - most of that was classified well over his clearance - but the Firm had thought the Russians stopped using it after the '70s. Not that Rush wasn't effective; supposedly it had incredible effects on the frontal lobes, spawning raging bursts of extra-sensory perception. Usually fatal bursts.

Why?

"Get me... out of here..." A rasping voice, but incredibly, thankfully sane.

Odd, though. Last time he'd heard Michael speak Russian, he'd had a distinct Continental European accent. When had he picked up tones that might have come from the manors outside Moscow?

No time to wonder about it. Moses unlocked the cuffs, supporting his fellow spy as Archangel staggered to his feet. "We have to move. I'll be missed soon, and there's no way I could explain getting caught on this side of town." He nodded at the unconscious woman. God, he hated this part of the job. "What about her?"

"Adleida is my concern."

Moses whirled, ready to shoot-

Stopped in his tracks, finger limp against the trigger as a massive form blocked the window. _Mother Mary, what is_ that?

Archangel blinked at it, eyes slitted as if even starlight was too bright. "Pyetr."

_"Da."_ Talons and wings squeezed past shattered glass; the craggy, horned face cast a contemptuous glance at the body on the floor. Softened as he scooped up the girl as a man might a limp kitten. "Ah, my poor Mouse. So the raven caught you, after all..."

"You..." Michael wavered, shook his head. "You could have taken me from the start. You _let_ me fight you. Why?"

"Why else? For Adleida." Clawed fingers brushed back her dark hair, gentle as rose petals. "Those I spoke with said you knew the sword. But if you would not fight what you did not understand - would not fight when all seemed lost, against a foe that shattered all you knew of the world - then there was no hope." White fire glared at the corpse. "And I would have had to slay him, and pray the Dragon granted my clan time enough to escape. Now," a blue-winged shrug. "She vanishes; perhaps to the scum of this city, perhaps, even, into the arms of the grasping West." A fanged grin. "Two hours, yes?"

_Good enough for me_ , Moses thought, moving toward the window. He didn't _want_ to know what had happened here.

Michael's grip stopped him. "She knows who I am..."

_"Nyet."_ Short-cropped blond hair shook as the creature stepped out into the night air, girl cradled in his arms. "After such a battle as you fought? Last year, last month, perhaps even last week she will remember. Tonight? Nothing."

Archangel's expression sent chills down Rostoff's spine; knowing and cold and... lost. "Why do I believe you?"

A deep laugh, a crunch of brick, and Pyetr was gone.

"Come on." Moses tucked the rubber-topped bottle of Rush into Archangel's pocket. Vladimir Rostoff couldn't be caught with that, either. "Let's find you a cab."

* * *

  
_Cold. So cold_.

Michael Archangel staggered through the British embassy's front gates, past the guards, past the confused babble of well-dressed guests at this battered interloper in their midst. Between scrambling over shards of glass and hailing the cab, he and Rostoff had hashed out a tentative cover. Which would, like the best covers, be based on truth. He was a businessman, he'd walked into an alley he shouldn't have, and somehow he'd made it back to safe territory.

And he'd stick to that story, no matter how much it felt like the top of his head was about to come off.

"I say, Mr. Worthington!" One of the lesser British functionaries, round and stout, beard like brown fur over his black tuxedo, bristling over this typically American breach of good taste. Michael could feel the man's blistering outrage even over the torrent of confusion from the staff, his inbred Norman conviction that a proper gentleman should have the decency to drip blood anywhere _but_ in front of the guests. "What the devil is going on here..."

The room was warm. No one was shooting at him. The crimson-and-ebony damask foyer rug looked thick, and soft, and incredibly comfortable.

Archangel wondered if anyone would mind terribly much if he passed out.

* * *

  
"Yet you maintained your cover." The Firm agent in charge of Archangel's debriefing shuffled the paperwork in front of him.

"Yes." Standing at loose attention, Archangel gave the man a polite nod. No true American businessman would let little details like a twenty-four-hour hospital visit slow him down.

A wary glance across the desk. "No lingering side effects?"

"A little light sensitivity." Which seemed to ease in paler surroundings. Already he'd dumped most of the dark items from his wardrobe, save for working purposes. "I'm told I was lucky."

Though part of that was making his own luck, by not mentioning the odd... flashes that came to him. Moments when he almost thought he knew exactly what the people around him were feeling, what they were planning-

_Ignore them. They'll go away_.

And eventually they did.

Biding their time.

* * *

  
_A few years later._

"You're crazy."

Michael Archangel lifted a blond brow as he and the dark man in the pinstriped suit stood in the shadows of the Santini Air hangar. Peyton shared the same rank he did in the Firm; he'd have expected a little more flexibility from the man. "He is a pilot. With skills hard to come by."

"Have you _seen_ his psych profile?" Peyton jerked a head toward the pilot arguing with the older Italian in mechanic's coveralls. Or rather, Santini was arguing; Hawke only stood there, silent and cold as shadowed granite. "The only reason that man's still alive is because he's obsessed!"

"Obsessions can be turned." Though only with delicate, tedious, long-lasting effort. In most cases, the Firm would have steered well clear of one with such overwhelming desires. Far easier to work with those whose only rule was money, whose only country was whatever land would let them spend it freely.

Far easier. Yet far less safe for the missions he wished done. For the people whose lives would depend on Hawke's skill with aircraft and lies, arms and deception.

Those people - _his_ people - had to live their lives like water, flowing with each shift in the world about them, never certain of their ground. And when the spate of waters turned to raging flood...

Then they would need a lifeline. A rescue that would not fail, not even if all the storms in heaven barred the way.

Peyton snorted. "I'll be putting my objections in my report."

"You do that," Archangel murmured as Peyton stalked off. Ignoring the other spy to watch Santini's frustrated fling of hand, Hawke's deathly stillness as the Italian stomped back into the hangar. He could almost see Hawke as a caged falcon, battering its wings against the bars of society until blood came down like rain. If he freed that falcon, let Hawke fly-

_He might not come back_.

Oh, but if he did...

Lean shoulders tensed. "Come on out, whoever you are."

And Archangel would have sworn he hadn't made a sound. The man's hearing truly was amazing.

"Mr. Hawke?" The white-clad spy stepped out of the shadows, held out a hand he hoped wouldn't be refused. "They call me Archangel. I believe I'm who you've been looking for."

Blue eyes narrowed. Studied him, intently as Archangel had studied any of the young ladies he recruited. "I'm looking for Sinjin."

"Without access to the resources that would make your search truly effective." Archangel lowered his hand, but did not let it drop. "I can promise nothing. Information on the area in question is difficult to obtain, and sketchy at best. I have no reason to believe your brother is still alive; many reasons, in fact, to believe he is not."

"Not making a good case for yourself." Yet there was a spark of interest in that fierce blue gaze; just the faintest tingle of curiosity pricking through numb despair.

_What?_

Just a prickle. But definitely _there_. He _knew_ Hawke was interested... just as he knew the darkness waiting to engulf the younger man, the taut vibration of a soul pushed to its breaking point.

The psych profile was right, Michael realized. And wrong. Hawke wasn't obsessed; no more than a drowning man, clutching to the last scrap of wood to keep him afloat. Sinjin and Dominic Santini were all Hawke had left in the world, and the way Santini's marriage had recently gone to hell, the stalwart Italian just didn't have anything left to fight the darkness any more.

And Hawke would drown.

_No!_

Instinctive revulsion; a rebellion against the waste of it, the sheer carelessness of a world that wouldn't slow down long enough to give this man a chance. Just one was all he'd need. One reason to fight his way clear of the dark, spit at Fate, and keep fighting all the way back to humanity. One person to talk to, argue with, even hate if that was what kept him going.

Michael felt his own curiosity prickle. What would it be like, arguing with Stringfellow Hawke? Testing his wit, his gift for deception and persuasion, against a will strong as mountain stone?

He wanted to find out.

"What I can promise is to run down those leads you have acquired, investigate whether or not there is any truth to them." Archangel kept his face cool, unconcerned. Inside he walked a tightrope; he was close, so close... yet one wrong word, one wrong breath, and the chance would be gone. Utterly. "Any truth. If there are POWs, they deserve to be found. If there are those who choose to remain missing... we deserve to know that, too."

For a heartbeat he thought he'd gone too far, struck too near wounds torn and bleeding. Blue eyes narrowed, hardened-

Relaxed, openly curious. "Stringfellow." The pilot held out a hand. "Take it you have a job."

"Yes." Archangel met that lean grip, inwardly exulting. Never fooling himself; he'd won the first battle, not the war. And the war would be long, and bloody, and cruel as Siberian snows.

But he would win.

Hand reclaimed, he smiled. "My name is Michael."

_And you belong to me_.


End file.
